Years ago, I left a job because our family was relocating. But that wasn’t the only reason. I really wanted to quit that job. Part of my job involved working closely with my supervisor, assisting him with many of his tasks. The problem was, our personalities did not work very well together, and I often ended up feeling deeply frustrated when he missed deadlines and left me scrambling to make up for his tardiness. Our move gave me a convenient exit strategy, but it didn’t diminish the feelings of resentment that had started to build inside of me toward my supervisor.

One day, about a week before my last day of work, I opened up to my husband, Mark, about how I felt toward my supervisor. I told him I couldn’t wait to be done. After listening and sympathizing with the frustrations I’d faced at work, Mark asked me if I was planning to tell him how I’d felt while working for him.

“No way,” I said. “I don’t think that will go well.”

Many people question the value of devotions (or a scheduled daily time with God). They wonder, Is it just a religious exercise? Do we need to do it to be Christians? And I understand the questions. I’ve asked a few of them myself. We don’t want to do things because we “have to” or because it’s what we’ve always done. We don’t want to feel obligated, because obligation diminishes love. We want to live in God’s grace for us, not legalism. We want to understand the purpose of what we do so that we can do it wholeheartedly. And that’s good.

Thankfully, God’s not afraid of our questions. After all, the New Testament does not give us any specific guidelines for how much time to spend with God and when. God doesn’t give us a rule—but an invitation. He doesn’t tell us what we have to do, but what we get to do.

I never heard people talk about self-care when I was growing up. Now, everyone’s talking about it. And I’m glad. We need to know how to take care of ourselves. We need to know how to not burn out. Jesus agrees. When reflecting on the old covenant, Jesus said the second greatest commandment was to “love your neighbor as yourself” (Matt. 22:39). The implication is that if we don’t know how to first love ourselves, we won’t do a great job loving others. Self-care teaches us how to love ourselves—not just so that we can be emotionally healthy, but also so that we will effectively love and serve others.

Yet so often, our vision of self-care is limited to ourselves.

What happens when you know you should forgive, but you just don’t feel like you can?

Many people have felt this way. Although they want to forgive, the ideas often conflated with forgiveness seem impossible (or just plain wrong). Unfortunately, the Church has unintentionally contributed to this struggle. The way Christians often teach and talk about forgiveness creates a hurdle to forgiveness, making it into an impossible task in which we must somehow “forgive and forget.” In other words, we believe forgiveness means we must relinquish all desire for justice and move forward as though the offense against us never happened.

This mistaken idea about forgiveness needs to stop.

Forgiveness is a state of the heart. We could define it as “freedom from bitterness, resentment, and the desire for revenge.” But because of all the unhelpful teaching surrounding forgiveness, I think it’s important to clarify what forgiveness isn’t.

We all know God’s presence should be first, but too often, we struggle to make his presence first in our lives. When I was a coffee drinker, I drank coffee religiously. I never missed a cup. I never forgot to drink it. I might forget to drink water—but never coffee. Then, when I found myself craving coffee in the midst of a really hard season, I realized that my former coffee priority is a great picture of what it looks like to have a presence priority.

Forgiveness is self-care.

We often think of forgiveness as something we do for others, and it’s true that forgiveness can be the first step toward reconciliation with others. But forgiveness is first of all the brave choice to take care of our own hearts. Forgiveness keeps our hearts tender and alive. It is our greatest weapon against the temptation to shutter our hearts against pain—the slippery slope toward hardness of heart and bitterness.

I’ve had stones thrown at me, and it changed my life.

It is a part of my history that I’ll never shake.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about history. In its simplest definition, history is the story of our lives. But history isn’t just a static record of events; the impact of it lives on in us and informs the kind of people we become, for better or worse. We do not need to be defined by our histories, of course, but we certainly are changed by them.

We all need friends, but true friends can be hard to find. Finding friendships that last is even harder. Sometimes the people we love and trust turn against us or suddenly ghost us. Sometimes they become toxic or abusive, and we need to make our exit. Sometimes they get too busy or move away. Sometimes they create distance because of their struggles—or because of our own struggles.

I’ve experienced all of these scenarios, and none of them were fun. More than once, I’ve commiserated with the psalmist: “My friends and companions avoid me because of my wounds; my neighbors stay far away” (Ps. 38:11 NIV), and, “Even my close friend, someone I trusted, one who shared my bread, has turned against me” (Ps. 41:9 NIV).

I’m sure you can relate.

Have you ever silently argued with the pastor’s sermon while sitting among the smiling congregation? Have you gritted your teeth or rolled your eyes? Have you looked up the verse you believe contradicts the pastor’s point and silently showed it to your spouse?

I’m guessing, if you’ve been in church for very long, you know the feeling of disagreeing with a pastor’s sermon—sometimes strongly. I know I do.

Recently, the publisher of a Christian publishing house told me that they do not use the word hope in book titles. They’ve found, in their market research, that hope as a topic doesn’t resonate well, because their target audience wants immediate and tangible benefit. He wasn’t necessarily saying this is good, just telling me what they’ve found in their research.

This made me think. My book does not just have hope in the title. The concept of hope is on every page.

We all want to be accepted, yet finding our place is not always easy. Most of us tend to fall into one of two ditches on either side of healthy self-perception. Some choose the ditch where they sacrifice who they are in an attempt to gain love and approval, essentially living in denial about who God made them to be. Others choose the ditch where they flaunt their individuality and enjoy rocking the boat, essentially preferring a place on the outside so they don’t risk rejection.

Holidays are terribly hard for many people. When they became hard for me, I started asking God, How do I live in this both/and? How do I allow myself to grieve while also celebrating the good and living in hope?

Thanksgiving is the perfect time to ask this question, because gratitude happens within the context of an imperfect life. Human gratitude is unavoidably surrounded by pains and disappointments and unknowns. If we wait for the perfect moment to be thankful, we will never give thanks. The question is: How do I let gratitude kiss my grief?

Like many of you, I’ve faced many painful situations in the church. I have also had several run-ins with very toxic and abusive people. Some of those situations caused hurt (and even trauma) to my husband and me, to our kids, and to other people I love. Yet through it all, God has kept me and enabled me to keep a tender heart that is willing to trust people and take risks. That is the goal—to maintain a tender heart that keeps fighting on in our work for Jesus, no matter the wounds we have sustained along the way.

Insecurity is rooted in the belief that we must do something to be valuable and accepted, that our worth is attached to other people’s opinions of us. Insecurity teaches us to fear rejection and to crave approval; it makes us work really hard to fit in and appease the status quo. The problem is, when we try to fit in, we are working toward the wrong goal.

Jesus never said we should work really hard to be just like everyone else.

Hope feels hardest when we need it most.

In the moment when all possibility of rescue or breakthrough seems lost, that’s when we find out what our hope is made of.

We’ve all had moments of despair. Moments when we felt like giving up. When we stopped believing or even hoping that something would change for the better. That breakthrough would come. That healing is possible.

Have you ever received prayer for healing and had faith that God would heal you—yet you walked away unhealed? Have you stood in the prayer lines, excited and hopeful, believing this was your night—only to return home unchanged?

I have.

In fact, I have struggled with chronic and undiagnosed pain in my neck, shoulders, and arms for more than seven years. I’ve received prayer for healing more times than I can count—even from people known for seeing God supernaturally heal many people. I’ve regularly prayed and declared healing over myself, and I’ve been careful to speak faith-filled words. Yet, I am still waiting for my miracle.

It’s 2:30 AM. I roll over in bed. The room tilts for a second. My stomach lurches.

That was weird. I get up to walk to the bathroom. Almost fall. I’m holding on to everything, just trying to make it there and back. Feel like I might vomit. What is wrong with me?

I wake Mark up, tell him my symptoms, discover I feel OK if I lay perfectly still on my back. I try to sleep, but every time I fall asleep, I unconsciously roll onto my side, and the spinning wakes me up.

Just get over it. Why can’t you move on? Expectations echo in my head.

Getting over it is what we’re supposed it do. Something happens, and then we get over it, right? My self-talk isn’t working. The ache in my heart argues back, won’t let me ignore, won’t let me move on.

How does one get over something like that, after all? How does one “move on” when everything has changed? I don’t know the answer to that question.

What I do know is: That it is the wrong question to ask.

We had just arrived at church, were walking in the doors, when my seven-year-old realized she’d forgotten her Bible. This meant she wouldn’t get a ticket toward earning a prize in kids’ class. She tearfully begged me to drive home and get her Bible. But we were out of time. The service was about to start.

Just as the worship team began to play, my daughter climbed into my lap and started sobbing. Her disappointment in that moment was real. I could have dismissed her loss as unimportant, but it was important to her. I didn’t care about tickets, but she cared deeply. So instead, I said, “Honey, I am so sorry this happened, and it’s OK to cry. Do you remember what to do when you feel sad? Do you remember that Jesus wants to meet you in your sadness, and if you worship him, he will help you feel better?”

When God planted two special trees in the Garden of Eden, He decided that His relationship with humanity would begin with a choice. With an invitation, not a command. Think about that. From the very beginning, God said—“Here’s what’s best. Now you choose.” One tree would have guaranteed obedience, but two trees meant the possibility of willing relationship. It also meant the possibility of heartbreak.